


Hey, Eugene

by bellatemple



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, F/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-24
Updated: 2008-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean only asked for three things for his 18th birthday:  a fake ID, the Impala, and a night on the town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey, Eugene

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little random something that's been living in my head for weeks, but only just came out because I was suddenly completely bored at work. Quick, dirty, and hopefully fun. Based pretty completely on a song, but I won't tell ya which till the end.

"Eugene?"

"Yeah."

"Eugene."

"Eugene."

"Eugene?!"

"There a problem, son?"

Dean looked up from his fake ID and tried not to grimace too obviously. "Not if you want me to sound like a total _dork_ , there isn't,"

"Say's you're 21, doesn't it?"

"22, technically," Sam offered, peering not so much over Dean's shoulder as his elbow, but that was only because he was sitting. Little prick had had the nerve to shoot up a shitload of inches like, overnight, when he turned 13, and now, not even a year later, the kid could nearly pass for being Dean's age. It totally wasn't fair.

"Shut up, Cueball." Dean knocked his arm back into the brim of Sam's hat, knocking it off his head in a practiced move. Sam smacked one hand over the stubble that was just starting to grow back in and scurried after the thing.

Nair in the shampoo. Man, he was a genius.

"Well, Dean?"

"Yes sir, it does."

"So what's the problem?"

Dean sighed inwardly. He knew he shouldn't be complaining. He'd asked for three things for his 18th birthday and gotten all three: a fake ID, the car, and a night on the town _in an actual town_. It just figured that the ID was for some dude named "Eugene Brockmeister", the Impala was in desperate need of an oil change and tune up, and his "night on the town" was a nasty spirit in some crappy apartment on Avenue A and E 6th Street.

And he had to take Sammy along.

 _So_ not fair.

* * *

The crappy apartment on Avenue A was empty, but the crappy one next to it was in full swing with some sort of "crazy bohemian party", as Sam put it. Kid had been in a shit-tastic mood ever since he realized that Dean had drawn a skull and crossbones on his head in sharpie while he was asleep.

Man, this was the prank that kept on giving.

All they had to do on this one was run interference, keep the spirit hanging around while it was getting the old salt-and-burn treatment, keep anyone from getting whacked. It wasn't the freakiest of ghosts they'd ever dealt with -- hell, even _Sam_ had faced worse. But a job was a job was a fucking job and ghosts didn't even take the federal holidays off, much less a hunter's birthday. So they'd made a quick check of the party, a little nodding here, a little bullshitting there, then slipped next door with three bags of salt and a gun apiece, checked all the thresholds, and settled in in the middle of bare-ass floor to spend the night.

It sucked _major_ ass.

By eleven o'clock, Dean was getting twitchy. He had an hour left of his 18th birthday and he hadn't done _anything_ seriously cool with it. And that was about as seriously not-cool as anything he could think of. And this spirit was a serious no-show, probably already burned and Dean _knew_ he should've asked for at least a pager for his birthday, probably would've done him more good than the freakin' Eugene Brockmeister ID. So he was, what, just supposed to sit on his ass and make shadow puppets for his dorkish little brother, who wasn't speaking to him, anyway, for the rest of the night?

When there was a _party_ going on next door?

Yeah, he didn't think so.

Of course, he wasn't about to leave Sammy behind, either. No way was he making _that_ mistake again.

"Come on, Egon, let's get out of here."

"Dude, we gotta --"

"The ghost's a dud, dude, I'm not spending the whole night sitting around on my ass."

Sam glared and refused to stand up. "You just wanna go next door and have sex."

Dean laughed. "I was thinkin' maybe I'd get drunk first."

Sam still wasn't getting up. "I don't wanna go have sex."

Dean blinked at that. ". . . Dude, you do know there's other shit to do at a party, right?"

"In _New York?_ Some of those girls were practically _naked._ "

"Okay, seriously, how is it you're, like, the size of a street lamp but you still think girls have cooties?"

"I don't think --"

"Right, so get off your ass and maybe we'll see if we can talk them into just kissin' you."

"I don't wanna --"

"Okay, fine, you can hide in the bathroom or something! But I ain't stayin' here, so that means you're not, either."

Sam rolled his eyes. Did pretty well, too. Musta been practicing that one. " _Fine._ "

"Great. Fan-fucking-tastic."

* * *

The party was _awesome_.

Okay, so the music sucked ass, and he'd never heard of any of the dances people were doing, and the only booze he could find was some kind of fruity vodka shit. But, after sticking his nose in to introduce Dean as "Eugene", Sam really had gone to hide in the bathroom all night, so it was _awesome._

Hell, he'd been dancing with the same smoking hot chick for the last, like, two hours or something, and she was _so_ totally into him. Probably some kind of college chick or something, since she totally didn't even giggle when he told her he was "Eugene Brockmeister". And she didn't seem to mind that she had to teach him the dance. He was so in it wasn't even funny. Maybe he'd even get to break in the back seat of the Impala.

Someone handed him another plastic cup of that fruity, apple-y shit everyone was drinking and he tossed it back like it was a jello shot. The chick -- shit what was her name? -- laughed and put her hand on his wrist. "Slow down there, tiger."

Her nails were _really_ shiny.

"I'm not that drunk," he told her. Then, since she was dragging him back out onto the dance floor and he wanted to keep the way into her panties as open as he could, he added, speaking very carefully, because his tongue had gone numb and he didn't want her to misunderstand, "You're totally my favorite salsa dancer that I have ever come across in New York City."

Smooooooooooooth. He was the King. He was freakin' James Dean and Jimi Hendrix all rolled into one. He was the shit that the shit wished it could be.

"We're doing the rhumba," the chick said.

"I knew that."

She laughed.

Another couple songs later, and they were more stumbling into each other than they were actually dancing, and Dean was thinking his cheeks might crack because he was grinning so hard, and this was officially the greatest birthday ever when suddenly someone screamed.

 _Oh fuck, that's right, the fucking ghost!_

He was the shit alright. The shit that the other shit shat out after eating its own shit. He turned his head to find the person who screamed. They were standing at the bathroom door, staring down.

"Hey, isn't that your friend?" the Rhumba chick asked.

Dean swallowed.

Yep, that was Sammy alright, lying flat out on the floor, a dreamy look on his face, ball cap crumpled in one hand, drooling all over the bathmat.

"Jesus, he musta been passed out in there for hours," Rhumba chick said. Dean rubbed the back of his head.

"Yeeeeeah. I should probably get him home." He let out a sigh and tried not to stagger too much as he made his way forward. The skull and crossbones on Sam's bald skull was a little smeared on one edge, and as he bent down to tug him up into his arms, Dean noticed that Sam completely _reeked_ of those damned fruity apple-tini things the hostess had been serving all night.

His thirteen year old brother was wasted. On a job.

He was so dead.

"I'll help you," Rhumba chick offered, reaching out to grab Sam's other arm as gently as she could and helping Dean drag him toward the elevator. She smiled at him as they counted to three and slung Sam's limp form through the doors.

The night was looking up.

* * *

Dean had asked for three things for his 18th birthday. A fake ID, the Impala, and a night on the town. He now had a fake ID, the Impala, a _very_ strong buzz, a hot chick's phone number scribbled on a soggy paper towel, and the hot chick herself pressed against him from toe to lips, her very short skirt hiking up just enough to be seriously hot without being too skanky.

Which, considering that Sam was probably still passed out on the floor of the elevator while they were busy playing tongue-tag, was probably a good thing.

Right, so he also had a very trashed Sam to worry about, along with a ghost that might or might not have managed to head back out to the cemetery, and several blisters on his right foot from trying to rhumba in boots. But over all, he decided tonight definitely went into the "win" category.

Until, at least, Rhumba chick pulled back to take a breath and suddenly said "hey, where'd your skinhead friend go?"

 _Fuck._

It didn't exactly take long to search the elevator. Or, rather, it _shouldn't_ have taken long to search the elevator, since it was only, like, four feet by four feet by eight feet, but both he and the Rhumba chick were pretty fucking skunked by then, too. And they kept getting . . . distracted.

Forget knots, dude, this chick could probably tie a cherry stem into a freaking _sheep shank_ with her tongue if she wanted to.

Still, little brother, and the impending doom of having to own up to getting him trashed on a job and then _losing him_ was more important than his dick, even on his freaking 18th birthday.

But, dude, he was so beating the shit out of the little snot for ruining this for him. Just out of principle.

"He's probably around here somewhere," Rhumba chick tried to assure him. She had his shirt half off by that point, and Dean was _really_ close to just agreeing and seeing what she could do with that tongue in more interesting places, but Sam won. Sam _always_ won.

Maybe they'd stick around in town for a little longer, this time. He could ask for a fourth birthday present, right?

"Can I call you? On, uh." Tomorrow was no good. Tomorrow _no one_ was going to be conscious if they were all drinking those gold-brick-with-a-twist-of-apple things the hostess had been handing out like liquid crack. "Sunday. Sunday?"

"Sunday," she agreed, and then she gently pushed him out of the elevator to go hunt down his "skinhead friend", and blew him a kiss and a wink as the doors shut and she went back to the party.

Dean looked at the elevator door longingly for several minutes, half-hard and wishing he were an only child. Sam stumbled back up, eventually, looking dazed and wobbly and as bitchy as ever. He swayed in place, and Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye out of habit more than anything, Sam looking at Dean, then at the elevator, then at Dean, then at the elevator, then finally opening his mouth to give his ever important, thirteen year old, drunken words of wisdom.

"She smelled funny."

Then he threw up on Dean's boots.

* * *

They dodged a chewing out by inches, thanks to Sam's elaborate tale of woe and intrigue involving a damsel in distress (Rhumba chick), her intrepid, but naive friends (the party goers), and the vengeful spirit which fought dirty, flinging apple-tinis at anyone who got in its way. It was really pretty impressive, and when he was done and they were back in their room trying to pretend they weren't both trying to sleep off raging hangovers, Dean told him as much.

"Yeah, well, that's your birthday present, jerk," Sam said.

"I'm gonna call her, Sammy." Dean still had the no-longer-soggy paper towel clenched in his hand. "Didja see the way she moved her hips?"

"Saw more'n I wanted to," Sam groaned.

"I'm gonna call her." Dean decided. "My birthday present to me. We really hit it off. I'm gonna call her tomorrow and we're gonna have sex _all day._ "

And he totally was going to.

But he never did.

  
_Hey Eugene, do you remember me?  
I'm that chick you danced with two times through the Rufus album Friday night at that party  
On Avenue "A"  
Where your skinhead friend passed out for several hours on the bathroom floor  
and you told me  
You weren't that drunk, and that I was your favorite Salsa dancer you had ever come across in New York city_

 _Eugene, Eugene, Eugene  
I said hello, Eugene  
Are you there Eugene?_

 _Hey Eugene, then we kissed  
Once we lugged your friend into the elevator and went to write my number on a soggy paper towel  
And the car went down  
And when we were finished making out we noticed that your skinhead friend was gone.  
Long gone.  
And you looked into my bloodshot eyes and said is it too soon if I call you Sunday_

 _Eugene, Eugene, Eugene  
I said hello, Eugene  
Are you there, Eugene_

 _I said hello (hello), Eugene (Eugene)  
Does any of this ring a bell Eugene?_  
\-- [Hey Eugene](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vf4X6WKPtk) by Pink Martini


End file.
